


Contingency

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Charles Augustus Magnussen (Mentioned) - Freeform, Christmas Scene, Don't copy to another site, Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Kiss, Goodbye Mary, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: What would have happened if John had refused to believe Mary's lies? What would have happened if he'd stood up to Sherlock and told him "no"?In my version of HLV, John is the intelligent doctor and perceptive soldier that he should have been.A fix-it of the Holmes family Christmas scene.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 243
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	Contingency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Z_S64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Z_S64/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Contingencia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703181) by [lockedin221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B)



> For my dear friend Zephyr. My very own Watson.  
> Happy Birthday, love. Sorry this is a month (technically 13 months) late!

The country cottage kitchen has that distinct “Christmas” smell: mince pies baking, turkey roasting, the scent of pine needles mixed with winter berry candles. It has never been a favourable time of the year for John Watson, a lack of close friends and family has given him little to celebrate, and the two years without Sherlock were pure hell. This year was supposed to be different; he had his best friend back.

Over the past five months that John has been temporarily living at Baker Street again, the two of them have grown much closer. There had always been love and affection between them, but John had never analysed it, had attempted to keep his feelings firmly in the platonic box. But the intimacy of caring for Sherlock, of dressing the wound that had been inflicted by his wife, has forced him to take a deeper look at his feelings. There have been more of the casual touches between them, and nights when they had shared the sofa instead of sitting in their respective chairs, falling asleep against one another. Sherlock had once again started to intrude on John’s private fantasies, something which he hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in since before Sherlock died. At times, he gets the impression that Sherlock feels the same way about him, but he’s just so bloody difficult to read! Do the soft smiles and the quiet affection mean something to him, or is he just trying to thank John for being there for him? He can’t be sure, so he’s never pushed the issue. And now they’re here, spending Christmas with Sherlock’s parents… and his wife.

John’s mind returns to the present, finding himself still seated at the Holmes’ large oak kitchen table, and vaguely hearing the droning sound of Mycroft’s incessant complaints. The government man hasn’t forgiven Sherlock for forcing him to accept the invitation they turn down every year.

‘Why are we doing this? We _never_ do this.’

Mrs. Holmes is cooking while clearly trying to antagonise Mycroft: she currently has her newly peeled potatoes resting on his laptop. ‘Someone put a bullet in my boy, and if I ever find out who it was, I shall turn positively monstrous!’

Sherlock chokes on the mince pie he is stuffing his face with, spraying pastry crumbs over his black shirt. Mrs. Holmes turns to look at him with curiosity, but John distracts her easily by praising her baking skills, distinctly aware that the entire Holmes family are uniformly susceptible to flattery.

Mycroft cannot resist the temptation to tease his brother about the number of pies he’s eaten that morning: ‘You’ll need to start watching your weight, dear brother’, and he smirks at Sherlock’s glare. ‘Why don’t you put those down and come outside to see Father. I believe he’s in the workshop.’

**

Sherlock has lit his cigarette almost before they are out of the cottage. Leaning against the red brick wall he takes a deep inhalation and waits for his brother to explain why he wanted to talk to him in private. Mycroft lights his own cigarette, despite not really being a smoker. Sherlock is convinced he only does it because he thinks it makes him look cool.

‘I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnussen business’, Mycroft announces.

‘Are you?’ Sherlock looks surprised at the both topic and the notion that this particular case matters to his elder brother.

Mycroft nods, looking at his smoke in disgust, ‘I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you ... hate him?’

‘Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don’t you?’

‘He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil – not a dragon for you to slay.’

‘A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?’ He coughs out a mouthful of smoke.

‘No’, he gives Sherlock a pointed look, ‘It’s what you think of yourself.’ When Sherlock fails to respond, Mycroft continues, ‘I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline.’

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat, ‘I decline your kind offer.’

‘I shall pass on your regrets.’

‘What was it?’

‘MI6 – they want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.’ Mycroft’s cheeks are flushed, but whether it is from the bitter wind or the emotion conjured up at the thought of his brother’s demise, Sherlock can’t be sure.

‘Then why don’t you want me to take it?’

‘It’s tempting ... but on balance you have more utility closer to home.’

‘Utility?! How do I have utility?’

Mycroft grinds the cigarette out under his foot, ‘Here be dragons.’

**

‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Mrs. Holmes? Your family seems to have deserted you.’

‘Oh, I’m used to that, John. Cooking is my department. I was just making some tea; would you mind taking one through to Mary? And you must call me “Mummy”, dear.’

John has successfully managed to avoid his estranged wife all morning and was planning to do so until dinner at the very least. ‘Um… yes of course, I should check on her.’

Over the past several days, Sherlock has been working with John on a speech to deliver to Mary this afternoon. He’d been _adamant_ about the timing of it – _after_ lunch. Surely it doesn’t matter, John thinks. Better to get it over with.

He knows there’s far more to this than Sherlock has let on. When he first started to encourage John to contact Mary, he thought he was simply trying to be a good friend, but then came the invitation to Christmas dinner, a dinner that Sherlock had never willingly attended, and his insistence on very specific, scripted words. He had said he knew exactly what John should say to Mary to get _her_ to forgive _him_ for abandoning her over the last five months, “She’ll be happy, probably cry. Women seem to do that. Hormones.” This went past a friend trying to help a struggling marriage; this felt like a plan.

Carefully carrying the tea through the old cottage, he knocks on the closed living room door and enters without waiting for a response. Mary is seated on the sofa reading one of Mrs. Holmes’ scientific texts, and probably understanding every word. Her bright red cardigan fits in perfectly with the various Christmas paraphernalia in the room and with the shining red tinsel on the seven-foot spruce in the corner.

‘Hi.’ He places the tea on the small table beside her. ‘So, are you okay?’

‘Oh, are we doing conversation today?’ She replies sarcastically. ‘It really _is_ Christmas.’

John ignores her comments and sits in the chair to the right of her, reaching into his jacket pocket he pulls out a slim, silver memory stick.

‘ _Now?’_ Mary sits up, hand on her protruding belly.

John nods, placing the stick on the table between them. The stark black “A.G.R.A” lettering taunting them.

‘Seriously? Months of silence and we’re going to do this now?’

‘Mary, I had every right to be angry, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve chosen these words with care.’ He draws in a breath, taking her hands in his, ‘The problems of your past are your business. I wish you’d come to me; I wish you’d let us help you, but what happened before I met you can stay in the past.’

Mary smiles softly, relieved. In all honesty she thought it would be harder to convince John to forget her past. Maybe they will get through this. A tear escapes from her eye and lands on their joined hands before she Mary brushes it away with her thumb. She starts to move in for the kiss that will seal the end of that chapter and the beginning of their new life together.

John leans away from her, ‘However; what I could never forgive is what you did to Sherlock. You shot an unarmed man, a man who had shown you nothing but kindness and affection. My best friend and someone you know I love dearly. You were willing to take him from me again.’ He lets go of her hands. ‘For that reason alone, I’m filing for divorce and moving back to Baker Street.’

‘What? You can’t do that! I’m about to have your baby!’

‘Mary, I may not have lived with you for much of the last seven months, but I _am_ a doctor, and I know a pregnant woman when I see one. You are not now, nor have you ever been, pregnant.’ John smiles that smile that has no trace of affection in it, only anger and pity. She underestimated John Watson. He can’t say exactly when he knew. There had been the early suspicions when he was convinced they had always used protection, and when she wouldn’t allow him to examine her, or to come to the doctor’s office for the official confirmation. Then there were the scans he was never allowed to attend, a complete lack of morning sickness or any other symptoms, the fact that she broke into Magnussen’s office and attempted to murder Sherlock during the risky early stages of her supposed pregnancy, and something in the way she carried herself recently that just didn’t ring true. When he had seen her that morning, for the first time in weeks, he had simply known.

‘John, you don’t know what you’re saying’, she pleads with him, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

‘Mary, please don’t make me prove it.’ He tilts his head and gives her a determined stare, almost begging her to fight him, but she turns away. John relaxes his stance. ‘I’m going to ask Mycroft to send a car for you. You’re going back to the house, and when you receive the divorce papers you will sign them without question.’

Her soft watery eyes immediately harden and dry up when she realises the pretence is over. ‘I needed to give you a reason to stay. Something Sherlock Holmes couldn’t give you.’

‘I know’, John sighs. ‘You’re deeply troubled, Mary, and maybe I could have helped you. Maybe I could have forgiven all those lies… but you killed him. His heart stopped for one minute and thirty-six seconds.’

Mary nods, finally accepting that she had sealed her own fate that day. She rises from the sofa and her entire posture changes. She suddenly looks nothing like the woman he had loved. Mary doesn’t break eye contact when she removes the false belly, dropping it onto the sofa. ‘I’ll pack up your things when I get home. Please collect them when I’m not there.’

John watches his soon-to-be ex-wife leave the room and hears the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing. With one last look at the false belly discarded on the sofa, John returns to the kitchen in the hope of finding Mycroft without Sherlock. As luck (perhaps bad luck) would have it, both Holmes brothers are back at the kitchen table, smelling suspiciously of smoke.

John doesn’t look at Sherlock, just adjusts his cardigan awkwardly as he addresses Mycroft.

‘Mycroft, can you organise a car to take Mary home, please?’

Sherlock’s head jerks up from the newspaper he’s been scouring for cases.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. He simply takes out his phone and types a quick message, nodding once at John. Sherlock, having waited for Mycroft’s response, gets up and grabs John’s arm, dragging him out into the hallway outside the kitchen.

‘What’s going on?’

‘We’ve had a little chat and agreed that Mary doesn’t belong here today.’

‘Care to tell me why you’ve changed the plan at the last moment?’ he hisses. ‘You weren’t supposed to speak to her until _after_ lunch. Why can’t you ever just stick to a plan without going off on your own?’ Sherlock pulls at his hair, exasperated. ‘Why is she leaving? You’ve forgiven her.’

‘No, Sherlock, I haven’t.’

Sherlock blinks twice, a look of confusion causing his brow to furrow in that way that gives him deep grooves on the top of his nose. John has always found it adorable, but this time it’s only there for a second before Sherlock explodes in anger. ‘Why the hell not?! We prepared the words. That was the plan!’

‘Your plan was never _my_ plan.’ He lets that sink in. ‘Did you know she was never pregnant?’

‘I had suspicions, nothing concrete. You were still supposed to forgive her’, he sulks.

‘I couldn’t, Sherlock.’

‘She makes you happy!’

‘She did. Once. But I could never forgive her for trying to kill the man I…’ John trails off and coughs awkwardly. ‘… the man I… care about. More than I should. More than a married man should care about his best friend.’

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, closing it again when he realises he has no idea how to say.

‘Why did you leave me out again? You promised you wouldn’t do that after the last time, yet here I am helping you with a plan I know nothing about.’

‘I… thought that you were forgiving Mary, and I didn’t know if you would keep this from her.’ He looks away sheepishly, ‘I couldn’t be sure where you placed your loyalties’.

‘I just left my wife, my wife who until about five minutes ago I thought was carrying my child, because she put a bullet in you. You _know_ where my loyalties lie.’

John’s words seem to echo in the hallway, as well as Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath as the words register. John looks down, licking his lips nervously, clenching his left fist. Sherlock is blinking repeatedly, frozen to the spot and barely breathing. They stand there for an interminable length of time, eye contact never wavering, before the silence is broken by a call from the dining room.

‘ _Dinner!’_

Both men flinch, snapped out of their reverie. Sherlock makes to move past John into the kitchen, but John takes hold of his arm to stop him. Remembering one of the lines that Sherlock had advised him to say to Mary, he says, ‘The problems of _your_ future are my privilege, Sherlock. Remember that.’

**

John is surprised to see that Mary has already left by the time he returns to the kitchen, Sherlock walking closely behind him, their hands almost touching. Mycroft appraises them both, smirking slightly. ‘Shall we be getting that happy announcement at last?’

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond but John is there first: ‘Sod off, Mycroft.’

Sherlock beams proudly, as he does every time John insults Mycroft, before turning his attention back to his brother. ‘You’ll keep someone with Mary, won’t you? Watch her?’

Mycroft doesn’t respond, but he tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow. Sherlock frowns in response, annoyed. John is used to the brothers’ silent conversations by now, and he takes these expressions to mean that there is an agent on Mary, though he can’t be sure if it’s for her own protection… or for Sherlock’s.

Mrs. Holmes gives them a curious glance and places the roast on the table, leaving her husband to start the carving. As the others sit down at the table, Sherlock and John glance at each other, John giving a small smile and quickly squeezing Sherlock’s hand. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Mrs. Holmes (who would have been pleased to see this development a few years ago).

When the plates are filled, Mr. Holmes raises his wine glass and says, ‘To my wonderful wife. Thank you for the meal you have prepared for us. And… to family. Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas’, each of them mumbles in unison. Even Mycroft.

Dinner starts off with the almost jovial pulling of crackers, which Sherlock quite enjoys (explosions are his thing) and Mycroft thinks is childish. Both boys refuse to wear the hats; Sherlock is rather precious about his curls. They are laughing at Sherlock’s attempts to predict the bad jokes and frustrated by the fact that he knows the answer to all of the trivia. Throughout, there are a number of small touches between them; John even puts his arm around the back of Sherlock’s chair when he takes a break from eating, intermittently running this thumb along his shoulders.

Sherlock gets a dot of gravy on his chin when using his hands to eat a Yorkshire pudding. Without thinking, John reaches out and wipes it with his finger, licking the sauce from the top of his digit. Mycroft clears his throat. Sherlock feels the heat rise to his cheeks.

The room descends into awkward silence, and for the remainder of the meal nothing is heard except the scraping of cutlery against plates. Sherlock’s mind can’t stop replaying the words John had said to him and obsessing over the easy affection he is showing now that he has called time on his troubled marriage. It’s really not the time for Sherlock to be coming to terms with his emotions with regards to John, and he feels like his head might implode from the pressure.

Eventually the silence in the room is too heavy for John and the judgemental stares from the previously friendly Mrs. Holmes encourage him to put down his fork and speak up.

He coughs, awkwardly, ‘Erm… I’ve sent Mary home because we’re splitting up. I’m filing for divorce.’ For a while nobody speaks, the other men averting their eyes, but Mrs. Holmes glares at him, no trace of her previously genial self.

‘It’s none of my business, John, but in my day, men didn’t leave their pregnant wives.’

‘John’, Sherlock touches his arm, ‘Please don’t.’

John ignores him, ‘It’s a long story, Mrs. Holmes, but the short version is… Mary shot Sherlock.’

Mycroft puts his head in his hands, mumbling the words _“national security”_ into his palms. Mr. Holmes remains stoic except for a crinkle above his nose, reminiscent of his son’s. The aforementioned son is chewing the inside of his mouth in an effort not to speak, while his mother pushes her chair violently back from the table, jostling the bowls of cooling vegetables, and jumping to her feet.

‘ _What?!_ Is this a joke, John?’

‘No joke’, he turns to his friend, ‘I’m sorry, Sherlock, but they should know why I’ve left her. He looks back at Mrs. Holmes, ‘Oh, and she’s not pregnant either. Just another one of her bloody lies.’

‘I will _kill_ her! Get her back here, Mycroft, I want to _slap_ her for hurting my boy.’

‘Mummy,’ Mycroft tries to calm her down.

‘How could you bring her into our home, John? We welcomed her into our _family._ ’

Sherlock comes to his brother’s rescue. ‘It was my suggestion to bring Mary here, Mummy. I believed, falsely, that they were having a baby together.’

Mrs. Holmes has gone pale and keeps patting Sherlock’s arm. Mycroft gets her a glass of water, but she slaps his hand away. ‘Did you know about this? Of course, you did. You know everything that goes on with Sherlock and you never tell me anything.’

The meal ends rather abruptly after that, nobody having much of an appetite any longer. Sherlock is annoyed that the drugged punch he had prepared earlier will likely go untouched, the mood being somewhat incompatible with alcohol. He’ll have to dose their afternoon tea instead. Hopefully John won’t be too suspicious when he offers to make it.

‘Why don’t you have a lie down, Mummy? I’ll make you some tea.’ Sherlock stands taking his mother’s arm while John takes the other. Mycroft raises his eyebrow at Sherlock’s offer to make tea, but before he can comment his father meets his eyes and silently suggests they go outside to smoke on the back terrace.

‘I’ll take her; you put the kettle on’, John takes charge, wanting to speak to Sherlock’s mother in private.

John settles her down on the sofa, making her comfortable and sitting beside her.

‘This is going to be hard to hear, but Mary isn’t who we thought she was. Her name isn’t really Mary and she has a rather… colourful past.’ He stops, unsure of how much he should tell her, then decides sod it: she has a right to know. ‘My wife was an assassin. She shot people for a living.’

Mrs. Holmes clutches at her chest, eyes wide. ‘Oh my… Oh, John.’

‘I didn’t know who she was. Not until she shot Sherlock. And I wanted to leave right there and then, but Sherlock… he kept telling me we could trust her, that she was careful _not_ to kill him. But she did, didn’t she? I was right there when he flatlined. I called you…’ Pain flashes in both pairs of eyes at the memory. ‘I was never going to forgive her for that. Never. I’m so sorry I brought her into your home.’

‘I don’t blame you, John. Not really. And I can’t blame Sherlock. He always does what he thinks is best for you. Mycroft should have known he was supposed to keep an eye on you.’

‘What do you –?’

Before he can finish the question, Sherlock flies into the room in a swirl of Belstaff, somehow managing to carry four cups of tea, balanced precariously in his hands. ‘Tea’, he states, redundantly, standing in front of them until they both take a cup, unable to hand them over himself with his hands so full.

As abruptly as he entered, he leaves again, presumably to take the other cups to his father and brother. John frowns, trying to remember any other time that Sherlock had willingly made him tea (that wasn’t poisoned). Then again, he’s never really seen Sherlock’s interactions with his family before; maybe he’s always this accommodating with them, though John doubts it. He sits back, taking a long gulp of the perfectly made tea.

Mrs. Holmes drinks her tea while John monitors her and is concerned that rather than the colour coming back into her cheeks, she is actually getting paler. He takes her wrist, counting the beats and finding the rate elevated. Her skin is hot and clammy to the touch. She sips more of her tea, hoping it will perk her up, but she’s begun to feel dizzy and places the cup on the side table.

‘I think I need to lie down, John. This has all been a bit of a shock.’ She lies down on her side, closing her eyes. John notices her body go slack, far too quickly to be a natural sleep. ‘Mrs. Holmes?’ There’s no response, but she is breathing and when John takes the pulse in her neck, it is steady. He shifts her into the recovery position and calls for Sherlock, but there’s no response. John feels her temperature and notes that she is bordering on too warm, so he reluctantly leaves her to go in search of both Sherlock and a cool flannel.

He follows the faint smell of smoke to find Sherlock and his family on the terrace, cigarettes burning in an ashtray. ‘Sherlock, your mum has – _Christ!_ What happened?’ He demands, as he notices both Mycroft and his father are unconscious, heads on the table, while Sherlock leans against the wall nonchalantly typing something on his phone.

He turns to John, ‘Do calm down. I calculated the doses carefully. It is something I’m pretty good at’, he quips.

‘Have you gone _completely_ mad?! No… don’t answer that.’ John takes a deep calming breath, ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s a plan, John. I’ve been _telling you_ there’s a plan!’

‘Yes, but you still won’t tell me what it is!’

‘We have an appointment.’ Striding back through the kitchen, he picks up Mycroft’s laptop from the table and grabs John’s coat. ‘Have you brought your gun?’

‘Why would I –’

‘Is it in your coat?’

John sighs, ‘Left-hand pocket.’

They exit the farmhouse into the field outside the front of the home. They can hear the sound of an approaching helicopter. John looks up at Sherlock.

‘I don’t understand. What are we doing?’

‘A deal with the devil.’

They have to shout to make themselves heard over the noise of the helicopter, which is churning up the grass around them as it begins to land.

‘I’m not getting on that chopper until you tell me the plan.’

‘I met Magnussen while I was in hospital. I promised to deliver my brother’s laptop to him, for a fee. He wants Mycroft. Mycroft’s pressure point is me, mine is you, and yours is your “pregnant” wife. If Magnussen owns Mary, he owns Mycroft. But if he has Mycroft, he no longer needs Mary. This’, he waves the laptop, ‘is the price we pay to keep Mary safe.’

‘You did _what?’_

‘You heard me’, he sighs. ‘John… this is going to be incredibly dangerous. One false move and we’ll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we’ve ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us.’ He pauses, flicking his fingers in a nervous tick. ‘Considering the fact that you… care about me more than you should… you might not be too happy with my risking life imprisonment, selling state secrets, committing –’

‘Sherlock’, he groans, ‘It’s _Christmas!’_

‘I feel the same… Oh, you mean it’s _actually_ Christmas.’

‘Sherlock, Mary isn’t pregnant, she’s no longer my wife, and she’s not my pressure point. _You_ are. Always have been. You can’t sell state secrets to a man like Magnussen just to protect Mary, or whatever the hell her name is. Actions like that have serious bloody consequences.’

Sherlock looks at John in surprise; he truly is his conductor of light. He _knew_ he should have adjusted the plan! His feelings for John ad the change in their circumstances have dulled his brain to unacceptable levels.

‘Why are you doing all this? It’s not about Magnussen, is it? Pushing me to forgive Mary, giving her the memory stick back… Why?’

‘Because you were happy!’ Sherlock yells over the sound of the rotors. ‘There’s no grand plan, John. I just want you to be happy and safe. I owe you that. If we get Magnussen off her back, you can have the life you wanted.’

‘I _had_ the life I wanted! Before you died. _That’s_ the life I want!’

‘John, if Magnussen blows Mary’s cover, you’ll be at risk. Especially if they can’t find her. The people she’s hurt, the families of those she’s killed – they will come for you.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it – together.’ John puts his hands on Sherlock’s arms, holding him still. ‘We’ll protect her, or jail her for shooting you! We can work with Mycroft, make a case against Magnussen. You don’t go up against him alone. And definitely not with a gun!’

‘I’m not alone. I have you.’

John takes Sherlock’s hands in his, turning him away from the chopper. ‘Yes, you do. Always.’

‘John, we have to get our hands on what he has on her.’

‘And what about what he has on you? Or me? Or Mrs. bloody Hudson? Are you expecting us to destroy his “vaults”? He’s never going to hand over everything he has on her, and we won’t be given the chance to search.’

Sherlock’s eyes glaze over as he contemplates this and says, ‘They must be particularly vast. He has an impressive amount of data on a lot of people. Plenty about me that’s not on record; presumably acquired from Mary through blackmail.’ He avoids looking at John’s hurt expression. ‘The way he can recite information about anyone he’s looking at means he must have a digital filing system nearly as impressive as my mind palace, and it’s somehow linked to his glasses…’ He looks equal parts impressed and begrudging of the idea that another person could have so much information on other people without having to delete facts about the solar system to make room for it.

‘As impressive as your mind palace? I’m surprised to hear you admit that’, John says, before going quiet as he ruminates upon the comment. ‘Hang on. What if that’s it? What if his “vaults” are in his own mind palace? It would explain how he can remember so much information. He’s not just memorising paper files; he’s got his own bloody mind palace!’ John grins, immensely pleased with himself; did he actually just beat Sherlock to a deduction?

‘Hmm. That’s actually a possibility’, he replies absentmindedly.

‘So, there’s nothing for him to give us. It’s impossible to make him “delete” what he has up there…’ His words drift off as a thought occurs to him, ‘We would have to destroy his vaults’, he says under his breath. ‘Oh Christ, Sherlock!’ He throws his hands up in the air, then pulls them down quickly, visibly restraining himself from slapping the moron in front of him. ‘That’s why you wanted the bloody gun? What were you going to do, shoot him in the fucking head?’

‘It was a contingency plan. That’s all. I was still hoping for physical vaults’, Sherlock looks away, abashed.

‘We are not doing this’, John shouts, ‘We’re going back in the house and attempting to enjoy the rest of Christmas. Mary can look after herself. I’m not letting you put your life, your freedom, at risk for her.’

Sherlock’s body relaxes as the fight rushes out of him. His shoulders slump and he appears defeated. John carefully removes his coat (and gun) from his friend’s hand and drapes it over his arm, placing his other hand on Sherlock’s upper back. Applying gentle pressure, John coaxes him into walking back towards the cottage, halting them both just outside the front door.

‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For not going. For choosing me instead of the case. I know it’s not the first time you’ve done that, and I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for it.’ John takes a step closer to him; the hand on Sherlock’s back sliding down to take hold of his hand. ‘There’s a lot I should be thanking you for.’

Sherlock gulps, the air around them suddenly tense with possibility. ‘No need. There were many times when the opposite was true, and I… I’m trying to do better.’

John brings Sherlock’s hand up to his lips, planting a soft kiss on the knuckles. ‘I know’, he whispers.

Sherlock blinks, amazed at the feel of John’s lips on his skin. His brain has gone offline, and for a moment he forgets where they are and what’s going on. Thankfully, John is a little more aware. ‘We should go in. We’ll have some explaining to do.’

He leads the still stunned detective back into the cottage and through to the kitchen. Sherlock places the laptop back on the table; knowing that Mycroft will be instantly aware of what has taken place the moment he sees it, he doesn’t bother to try to disguise the fact that it’s been moved.

‘I’ll check on Mummy, could you…’ He gestures towards the back porch, ‘They should wake up shortly.’

Outside, Mycroft stirs first, and John is right by his side. The second his eyes open he is alert, eyes flicking from John to his father and back again, taking in John’s expression. He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Oh, good Lord, what did my idiotic brother do this time?’

‘Nothing.’ He holds up his hand to stop Mycroft’s inevitable interruption. ‘Not that he didn’t try, but I managed to stop him. Think it might be better if your parents don’t know that he drugged them.’

‘Quite. Where is he?’

‘With your mum in the living room. You go; I’ll make sure your dad’s okay.’

**

Mrs. Holmes is still asleep when Mycroft storms into the living room.

‘What on Earth were you trying to achieve?’ He manages to hiss menacingly yet quietly enough not to wake his mother. ‘Committing treason? Risking life imprisonment, for you _and_ John? And for what? To protect the life of the woman who _shot you!’_

‘You know what I was trying to achieve.’ Sherlock rolls his eyes at what he considers to be Mycroft’s dramatics. ‘Charles Augustus Magnussen needs to be stopped. Not just for Mary, but for John. And for all the people that are “different” that he preys on.’

‘Mary Watson is under our protection, at your request. She will get a new identity and be taken far away from Magnussen.’

‘Knowing Mary, she will have slipped your surveillance by morning. I’m not walking away from this, Mycroft. I need to get home now; get me a car.’ He strides to the living room door calling out, ‘John! We’re leaving.’

His mother begins to stir at the sound of his shout. Mycroft sits beside her, helping her to lean back against the sofa.

‘Oh, Mikey… what happened?’ She puts a hand over her eyes, squinting against the light. ‘Did I faint?’

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, issuing a challenge to him to lie to his mother, because he sure as hell isn’t going to do it again.

Sherlock has the decency to look guilty, ‘Yes, Mummy. Something like that.’

Mr. Holmes wobbles into the room, looking a little worse for wear, with John on his heels making sure he doesn’t fall. He goes straight to the sofa and sits next to his wife, putting his arm around her and asking how she’s feeling.

John whispers to Sherlock, ‘I told your dad he must have overindulged at lunchtime and fallen asleep in the chair on the porch. He seemed to believe me.’

‘That’s because he’s an idiot’, Sherlock quips.

They both move over to the sofa to check on Sherlock’s parents, John subtly checking their pulses without them noticing. Or so he thought.

‘Boys, I’m sorry but I think we’ll need to cut our Christmas day short’, Mrs. Holmes says, regretfully. ‘It seems we’ve both had a shock and neither of us is feeling well.’ She looks up at Sherlock and fixes him with her intelligent gaze, ‘It’s almost as if Sherlock spiked the punch again.’

John looks over at Sherlock, eyes wide, and mouths the word _“Again?”_

Sherlock simply shrugs.

**

Ten days later and the boys are together on the sofa, digging into a curry. Sherlock is actually eating with gusto, and John can’t stop smiling at him. Their… relationship… has progressed slowly since their confessions at Christmas; there has been some touching, caressing, and some cringeworthy flirting, but nothing more. They are both just happy to be here, together, and they don’t need to rush.

This evening, as usual, the telly is on in the background while they eat, tuned to one of the many news channels so Sherlock can keep an eye out for potential new cases. There is a lull in their conversation, making the television seem particularly loud, when there’s an urgent broadcast:

“ _We’ve just received word that the newspaper magnate, Charles Augustus Magnussen, was fatally shot at his Appledore mansion, sometime in the early hours of this morning…”_

John drops his piece of naan bread onto his lap, staring open-mouthed at the TV. ‘Jesus Christ. Was this..? Was this _her?’_

‘I expect so’, Sherlock replies, not altogether unprepared for this eventuality. ‘It wasn’t me’, he smirks.

John gives him a look, ‘A bit not good, Sherlock.’

They both audibly groan when they hear the footsteps, with the ever-present tapping of an umbrella tip, making their way up the stairs. Mycroft stops just on the other side of the threshold.

‘Sherlock. Doctor Watson. I see you’ve heard the news.’

John stands up, wiping the remnants of the naan from his trousers. ‘Was it her? Where is she, Mycroft.’

‘It… appears… that Ms. Morstan evaded her protection detail last night. My people have assured me that she boarded a plane to the U.S. Completely unrelated to Magnussen, I assure you. Purely coincidental.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy’, Sherlock parrots one of Mycroft’s favourite lines back to him.

‘Indeed. Except sometimes it is, brother mine. In accordance with your wishes, the British government has decided not to pursue Ms. Morstan in relation to your shooting. I would be surprised if we heard from her again.’ He reaches inside his jacket pocket. ‘Doctor Watson? We did find these in your home.’ He hands John the divorce papers, complete with Mary’s signature, and turns his attention to his brother.

‘Charles Magnussen was the victim of an attempted robbery. He interrupted the perpetrator and was shot before his security team could respond.’

‘So, you have the person in custody, then?’

‘No. He was killed by Magnussen’s men. No identification on him, naturally.’

‘Oh, well that’s convenient.’

Mycroft sighs. ‘There’s no case for you to solve, Sherlock. Let it go.’ He turns on his heel and descends the stairs without a backward glance.

‘Is that it?!’ Sherlock shouts after him. ‘You expect me to believe that story?’

‘Good day, brother mine.’ Mycroft calls up, before the front door of 221 Baker Street clicks shut behind him.

‘He’s straightened that bloody knocker again.’ Sherlock curses under his breath.

John sits back down, close to Sherlock, holding the divorce papers in his hands. He has everything he has wanted for the past twelve months (or five years, if he’s honest): his deceitful wife has left their lives, the child (that he never truly wanted) doesn’t exist, and the man that stuck him in a bonfire, on Guy Fawkes night, for _leverage_ , is dead. John is back home at 221B, with Sherlock, and with the prospect that they could be something more. He honestly can’t wait for a new case.

Emboldened by a sudden wave of relief and optimism, he turns to Sherlock, taking his face in his hands and gently planting a firm kiss on his plump lips. He pulls back, before Sherlock has a chance to react, and smiles at his deeply flushed cheeks. It’s so endearingly easy to embarrass him. He sees his friend’s (boyfriend’s) hands gripping his knees, fingers digging into the flesh, knuckles white, and he slides his own hands over the top. Sherlock’s hands relax and he turns them palm up, taking hold of John’s and lacing their fingers together.

John lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since Sherlock stepped off that roof.

‘It’s over’, he sighs.

A sly smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, ‘And something else is just beginning’, he says, crowding John into the corner of the sofa and swooping in for another kiss.


End file.
